"Hullo, old man," said a cheerful voice on the other end of the line. Three words were plenty to tell Goldfarb the owner of that voice had gone to Oxford or Cambridge, and to one of the best public schools before that. Roundbush, his tormentor, had done all those things, but this wasn't Roundbush's voice. It wasn't any voice with which David was immediately familiar. Its owner went on, "Haven't seen you in a long time-not since we went trolling for barmaids together back in Dover, eh?"

"Jerome Jones, by G.o.d!" Goldfarb burst out. They'd worked side by side on radar sets through the Battle of Britain, and then during the onslaught of the Lizards-till radar-seeking missiles had taken out their sets and reduced them to using field gla.s.ses and field telephones right out of the First World War. "What the devil are you doing with yourself these days?"

"I'm in the import-export business," Jones answered, and David's heart sank. If that wasn't a euphemism for smuggling ginger, he would have been astonished. And if Jones wasn't going to try to use him some way or other, he would have been more astonished still. Sure enough, his former comrade went on, "I hear you've come on a spot of trouble lately."

"What if I have?" Goldfarb asked tightly. Jerome Jones wasn't in Her Majesty's forces; David could tell him where to head in without worrying about getting court-martialed-not that he'd let that bother him when he'd finally told Roundbush where to go and how to get there. Even though Jones' father had headed up a bank, dear Jerome would be hard-pressed to land Goldfarb in worse trouble than he'd already found for himself.

"Why, I wanted to lend you a hand, if I possibly could," Jones said, sounding surprised David would have to ask.

"What sort of hand?" Goldfarb remained deeply suspicious. He knew the kind of answer he expected. If you need to put a few hundred quid in your pocket, If you need to put a few hundred quid in your pocket, Jones would say, Jones would say, you can take this little shipment to Buenos Aires for me. you can take this little shipment to Buenos Aires for me. Or maybe it would be Or maybe it would be to Warsaw to Warsaw or or to Cairo to Cairo or even, G.o.d help us, or even, G.o.d help us, to Nuremberg. to Nuremberg.

Jerome Jones said, "Unless the little bird I've been listening to has it altogether wrong, there are some people giving you a bit of difficulty about leaving the country."

"That's true." Goldfarb kept on answering in monosyllables, waiting for the sales pitch. He remained sure it was coming. What would he do if good old Jerome promised to help him emigrate after he did his former pal one little favor that would, undoubtedly, turn out not to be so little? Also undoubtedly, good old Jerome had the clout, if he could be persuaded to use it.

"It's b.l.o.o.d.y awful, is what it is." Jones sounded indignant. How smooth was he these days? Back when Goldfarb had known him, he'd been distinctly callow. But he was a captain of industry these days, not a puppy still wet behind the ears. "You've done more for Britain than Britain wants to do for you. We're still a free country, by G.o.d."

"From where you sit, maybe," David said. From where he sat himself, the United Kingdom tilted more toward the Greater German Reich Reich with every pa.s.sing day. With most of the British Empire in the Lizards' scaly hands, with the USA still rebuilding after the fighting, and with the with every pa.s.sing day. With most of the British Empire in the Lizards' scaly hands, with the USA still rebuilding after the fighting, and with the Reich Reich just across the Channel, he supposed that tilt was inevitable. That didn't mean he thought it was anything but disastrous. just across the Channel, he supposed that tilt was inevitable. That didn't mean he thought it was anything but disastrous.

"I also hear your superiors have taken unfair advantage of you. Officers are nasty that way-think they're little tin G.o.ds, what?" Jones chuckled. "I always thought that. Back when I was wearing RAF blue, though, there was d.a.m.n all I could do about it. Things are different now. If I ring the minister of defense, I expect he'll listen to me. He'd d.a.m.n well better; his son is married to my first cousin."

"My G.o.d." Goldfarb's voice was hoa.r.s.e. "You really mean it."

"Well, of course I do," Jones answered. "What's the point of having influence if you don't get to use it? I'd have rung you up sooner, but I only heard of your difficulties a few days ago."

"That's all right," David said vaguely. Back when they'd served in the RAF together, he'd thought about Jerome Jones' secure upper-cla.s.s upbringing and his own roots in East End London. Then he'd thought the most he could aspire to was a little wireless-repair shop. After the fighting ended, staying in the RAF looked like a road to a better life. It had been, for a little while.

"I'll ring you back directly I know something," Jones told him. "Be good in the meanwhile." He hung up. The line went dead.

Goldfarb stared at the telephone handset before slowly returning it to the cradle. The young aircraftman was long gone. Goldfarb went back to the radar screens by himself, his head whirling.

A few days later, he was watching the glowing green screens again. They showed a Soviet s.p.a.cecraft pa.s.sing north of the U.K. The Americans and Germans-and likely the Race, too-laughed at the craft the Russians flew; the Americans called them flying tin cans. Because of the limits to their craft, Soviet s.p.a.cemen couldn't do nearly so much up there as their counterparts from the USA and the Reich. Reich. But they were flying. Britain had no s.p.a.cemen. Watching everyone else go by above his head, Goldfarb acutely felt the lack. But they were flying. Britain had no s.p.a.cemen. Watching everyone else go by above his head, Goldfarb acutely felt the lack.

He was about to remark on it to Sergeant McDowell when a fresh-faced enlisted man stuck his head into the room and said, "The base commandant's compliments, Flight Lieutenant, and he'll see you in his office fast as you can get there."

Taking the privilege of long acquaintance, McDowell asked, "What have you gone and done now, sir?"

"I don't know," David answered, "but I expect I'll find out before long. Don't let that Russian land in Belfast-people would talk." Before the Scotsman could find a comeback, Goldfarb headed for Group Captain Burton Paston's office.

Paston was doing paperwork when he walked in. The commandant's face, normally dyspeptic, now grew less happy still. "Oh, it's you, Goldfarb," he said, as if he'd been expecting someone else-perhaps the Spanish Inquisition-instead.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," Goldfarb said, coming to attention and saluting as he waited to discover what sort of new trouble he was in.

"Yes." Distaste filled Paston's voice, too. "Some little while ago, you attempted to resign from the Royal Air Force."

"Yes, sir, I did, but I've performed my duties since to the best of my ability," Goldfarb said. If Group Captain Paston thought he'd be able to hang a bad-conduct discharge on him, he had another think coming.

But Paston waved that away. "You seem to have friends as well as enemies in high places," he remarked. "Why so many people would get themselves exercised over a flight lieutenant up from the ranks is beyond me, but that's neither here nor there. The point of the matter is, I have been instructed in no uncertain terms to reconsider your resignation. Having done so, I've elected to accept it after all."

"Have you, sir?" David breathed. No matter what Jerome Jones said, he hadn't dreamt his old pal really did have so much clout, nor that he could work so fast. He also noted that Paston had tacitly admitted he'd been under pressure to reject the resignation before. Gloating would have felt good, but wouldn't have helped; Goldfarb could see as much. All he said was, "Thank you very much."

"I'm not nearly certain you're welcome," the base commandant answered. "You're the most experienced radar operator we've got, and I'm d.a.m.ned if I know where we'll come up with another one even half as good."

If he'd put something like that on a fitness report, Goldfarb might have risen higher than flight lieutenant. On the other hand, he couldn't do anything about being a Jew, so he might not have, too. He said, "I do appreciate this, from the bottom of my heart." Now that he'd got what he wanted, he could afford to be gracious. He couldn't very well afford to be anything else.

Burton Paston shoved forms across the desk at him. "I'm going to need your signature on all of these."

"Yes, sir." David signed and signed and signed.

When he was done, the base commandant handed him a copy of one of the forms. "If you take this to the Canadian consulate, it will serve to notify them that you have in fact separated yourself from the RAF, and that no impediment stands in the way of your emigration."

"That's splendid. Thanks." Goldfarb reflected on what influence could do. Before, Paston would sooner have thrown him in the guardhouse than let him leave Her Majesty's service. Now, he was practically laying down a red carpet to help speed Goldfarb out the door. So much cooperation got Goldfarb worried. "Suppose, sir, that the blokes who don't like me so much have got to the Canadians. If they turn me down, will I be able to rescind this resignation? I don't fancy being down and out with no hope for any job in sight."

"If they and the Yanks turn you down, yes," Paston answered. "Your friend already considered that possibility. You're lucky to have so many people looking out for your interests."

"I suppose I am, sir," David said. He didn't point out to Paston that, since he was a Jew, he automatically had a lot more people doing their best to give him a knee in the ballocks. The group captain wouldn't understand that, and wouldn't believe it, either. Goldfarb shrugged. He knew what he knew. And one of the things he knew was that he was getting out. At last, he was getting out.

One thing Johannes Drucker appreciated about his long service to the Reich: Reich: he had no trouble getting his hands on a firearm. Rifles and especially pistols were hard to come by for civilians in the he had no trouble getting his hands on a firearm. Rifles and especially pistols were hard to come by for civilians in the Reich. Reich. Every officer, though, had his own service weapon. Drucker would have preferred a pistol not so easily traced back to him, but, with any luck, no one would a.s.sociate Gunther Grillparzer's untimely demise with him anyhow. Every officer, though, had his own service weapon. Drucker would have preferred a pistol not so easily traced back to him, but, with any luck, no one would a.s.sociate Gunther Grillparzer's untimely demise with him anyhow.

He tried to read a copy of Signal Signal as the train rolled southwest toward Thuringia. By what the magazine said, everyone in Europe was delighted to live under the benevolent rule of the as the train rolled southwest toward Thuringia. By what the magazine said, everyone in Europe was delighted to live under the benevolent rule of the Reich Reich and to labor to make Germany greater still. Drucker hoped that was true, which didn't necessarily mean he believed it. and to labor to make Germany greater still. Drucker hoped that was true, which didn't necessarily mean he believed it.

As usual, the compartment was tightly shut up against the outside air. The atmosphere was full of smoke from cigarettes and a couple of cigars. In the forward compartment of this car, there'd been a screaming row earlier in the trip. Someone-a foreigner, without a doubt-had had the nerve to open up a window. Everyone else had pitched a fit till a conductor, quite properly, shut it again and warned the miscreant he'd be put off the train if he opened it again.

The interior remained unsullied by fresh air until a conductor came through the car calling, "Weimar! All out for Weimar!" as the train slowed to a stop at the station. Drucker grabbed his carpetbag-all the luggage he had with him-and descended from the car.

Weimar's station had a shabby, run-down look to it. As Drucker carried the bag out to the street to flag a taxi, he saw that the whole town looked as if it had seen better days. The Reich Reich and the National Socialists did not love the place where the preceding unhappy German republic had been born. and the National Socialists did not love the place where the preceding unhappy German republic had been born.

Drucker discovered he didn't need a cab after all. He could see the Hotel Elephant from where he was standing. He hurried toward and into it. A clerk nodded to him from behind the desk. "Yes, sir. May I help you?"

"I am Johann Schmidt," Drucker said, using the voice an officer used toward an enlisted man to hide his nervousness. "I have a room reserved."

That tone worked wonders, as it so often did in the Reich. Reich. The desk clerk flipped pages in the register. "Yes, sir," he said, nodding. He handed Drucker a key. "You'll be in 331, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay with us. We've been here on the Marktplatz for more than two hundred years, you know. Bach and Liszt and Wagner have stayed here." The desk clerk flipped pages in the register. "Yes, sir," he said, nodding. He handed Drucker a key. "You'll be in 331, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay with us. We've been here on the Marktplatz for more than two hundred years, you know. Bach and Liszt and Wagner have stayed here."

Not wanting to drop his air of lordly superiority, Drucker said, "I hope the plumbing is better now than it was in those days."

"Oh, yes, sir, Herr Herr Schmidt," the clerk said. "You will find everything to your satisfaction." Schmidt," the clerk said. "You will find everything to your satisfaction."

"We'll see." Having established a personality, Drucker played it to the hilt. "Oh. One thing more. Where is the central post office?"

"On Dimitroffstra.s.se, sir, just west of the square here," the desk clerk answered. "You can't miss it."

That seemed worth another sneer. Having delivered it, Drucker climbed the hotel's sweeping staircase to the third floor. Once he got there, he discovered the bath was at the end of the hall. He felt like going down and complaining. It would have been in character. With a shrug, though, he let himself into the room. Except for the lack of private bath, it seemed comfortable enough.

He changed into fresh shirt and trousers and as nondescript a jacket as he owned. The jacket's one virtue was that it had big, roomy pockets. He put the pistol in one and a paperbound book in another, then went downstairs and headed across the square to Dimitroffstra.s.se.

For a wonder, the clerk had got it right: he couldn't have missed the post office, for it lay only a couple of buildings away from the Gothic church that dominated Weimar's skyline. The post-office building, on the other hand, was severely utilitarian. Drucker sat down inside on a bench that gave him a good look at the bank of postal boxes, pulled out the book, and began to read.

A Postal Protection NCO in field-gray uniform with orange piping strolled by and eyed him. The Postschutz Postschutz was a branch of the SS, and had been since a couple of months before the Lizard invasion. Drucker kept on reading with a fine outward appearance of calm. The NCO paused between one step and another, then shrugged and walked on, his booted feet clicking on the marble floor. Drucker wasn't a b.u.m or a drunk. He didn't look as if he intended causing trouble. If he felt like reading in a post office... well, there was no regulation against it. was a branch of the SS, and had been since a couple of months before the Lizard invasion. Drucker kept on reading with a fine outward appearance of calm. The NCO paused between one step and another, then shrugged and walked on, his booted feet clicking on the marble floor. Drucker wasn't a b.u.m or a drunk. He didn't look as if he intended causing trouble. If he felt like reading in a post office... well, there was no regulation against it.

Drucker kept a surrept.i.tious eye on Box 127. He'd mailed Gunther Grillparzer-or rather, Grillparzer's alias, Maxim Kipphardt-his first payment two days earlier; it should be reaching Grillparzer today. By the way Grillparzer had sounded, he wouldn't let it sit around in the postal box for long. No, he'd spend it, either to keep a roof over his head or, perhaps more likely, on schnapps.

Maybe I should have worn a disguise, Drucker thought. But the idea of putting on false whiskers had struck him as absurd. And all the false whiskers he'd ever seen Drucker thought. But the idea of putting on false whiskers had struck him as absurd. And all the false whiskers he'd ever seen looked looked false. In the end, he'd decided that being what he was-an ordinary-looking middle-aged German in ordinary clothes-made as good a disguise as any. The ex-panzer gunner wouldn't have seen him for more than twenty years, after all. false. In the end, he'd decided that being what he was-an ordinary-looking middle-aged German in ordinary clothes-made as good a disguise as any. The ex-panzer gunner wouldn't have seen him for more than twenty years, after all.

The Postal Protection NCO tramped past him again. Drucker not only pretended to be absorbed in his book-a study of what people knew, or thought they knew, about Home-but actually got interested in it. That was an acting triumph of which he hadn't thought himself capable. The Postschutz Postschutz man didn't even bother pausing this time. He'd accepted Drucker as part of the landscape. man didn't even bother pausing this time. He'd accepted Drucker as part of the landscape.

A fat man came up and opened a postal box. It wasn't 127. When the fat man pulled out an envelope, he muttered something sulfurous under his breath. Drucker couldn't see the envelope. Was it a past-due bill? A letter from an ex-wife? A writer's rejection slip? He'd never know. Still muttering, the fat man went away. Drucker returned to his book.

When someone did come to Box 127, Drucker almost didn't notice: it wasn't Gunther Grillparzer but a blond woman-quite a good-looking one-in her mid- to late twenties. She took out an envelope-the envelope, the one Drucker had sent-and left the post office. envelope, the one Drucker had sent-and left the post office.

"Scheisse," Drucker muttered under his breath as he got to his feet, stuck the book in his pocket, and went out after the woman. Things weren't going as he'd planned. Drucker muttered under his breath as he got to his feet, stuck the book in his pocket, and went out after the woman. Things weren't going as he'd planned. No plan survives contact with the enemy, No plan survives contact with the enemy, he thought, all the while wishing Grillparzer hadn't found a way to complicate his life. he thought, all the while wishing Grillparzer hadn't found a way to complicate his life.

He hadn't been trained in shadowing people. Had the woman looked back over her shoulder, she would have spied him in the blink of an eye. But she didn't. She stood at a street corner, waiting for the trolley. Drucker decided to wait for the trolley, too. What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to do now? he wondered. He had no qualms about killing Gunther Grillparzer, none whatever. But a pretty stranger who might not even know what she was carrying in her handbag? That was a different business. he wondered. He had no qualms about killing Gunther Grillparzer, none whatever. But a pretty stranger who might not even know what she was carrying in her handbag? That was a different business.

Here came the streetcar, clanging its bell. She got on. So did Drucker. He didn't know the right fare, and had to fumble in a pocket-not the one that held the pistol-for change. The trolley driver gave him a severe look. Feeling absurdly sheepish, he went back and sat down beside the young woman. She nodded politely and then ignored him. He marveled that she couldn't hear his heart pounding in his chest.

The streetcar rattled along for several blocks, heading into as seedy apart of town as Weimar had. When it stopped, the woman murmured, "Excuse me," and walked past Drucker and out. He didn't get out with her. That would have been giving himself away. Instead, he stared out the window, hoping to see where she headed.

He got lucky. A lorry on the cross street blocked the intersection for fifteen seconds or so. No matter how angrily the motorman clanged, the truck didn't-likely couldn't-move. That let Drucker see the woman go into a block of flats whose brick front was streaked with coal soot.

He got out at the next stop and hurried back to the apartment building. In the lobby, as he'd expected, he found a bra.s.s bank of mailboxes. None said Gunther Grillparzer. Gunther Grillparzer. None said None said Maxim Kipphardt, Maxim Kipphardt, either. Before he started knocking on doors at random-a desperation ploy if ever there was one-Drucker noticed that the one for 4E did say either. Before he started knocking on doors at random-a desperation ploy if ever there was one-Drucker noticed that the one for 4E did say Martin Krafft. Martin Krafft. In detective novels, people often used aliases whose initials matched their real names. Martin Krafft wasn't Grillparzer's real name, but he'd said he'd been using a false one for a while. Without any better ideas-without any better hopes-Drucker started up the stairs. In detective novels, people often used aliases whose initials matched their real names. Martin Krafft wasn't Grillparzer's real name, but he'd said he'd been using a false one for a while. Without any better ideas-without any better hopes-Drucker started up the stairs.

Panting a little, wishing the place had a lift, he stood in the fourth-floor hallway, which smelled of cabbage and spilled beer. There was 4E, opposite the stairway. Drucker slipped his right hand into the pocket with the pistol. He thought fast as he advanced on the doorway and used his left hand to knock.

"Who is it?" The woman's voice. His knees sagged with relief: one right guess.

Drucker grimaced. Now he had to take another chance. "Telegram for Herr Krafft," he said. If Grillparzer wasn't there, life would get more difficult still. But, a moment later, the door opened and there stood the ex-panzer gunner, middle-aged and podgy fat and looking more than a little bottle-weary. He needed a couple of seconds to recognize Drucker, and that was a couple of seconds too long: by then, the pistol was aimed at his face. "Let me in, Gunther," Drucker said. "Don't do anything stupid, or you'll never do anything at all ever again. Keep your hands where I can see them."

"You won't get away with this," Grillparzer said as he backed away. Drucker came in and kicked the door shut behind him. His former comrade went on, "I thought you'd be a smart boy and pay me off. When I denounce you-"

Drucker laughed in his face. He tapped one of the b.u.t.tons on his coat. "You fool-the SS is listening to you run your mouth now, thanks to my transmitter here." Grillparzer looked horrified. Drucker was was horrified-at the bluff he was running. But, as. .h.i.tler had said, the bigger the lie, the better. "I horrified-at the bluff he was running. But, as. .h.i.tler had said, the bigger the lie, the better. "I am am the SS, and you, my friend, have cooked your own goose-and your girlfriend's, too." the SS, and you, my friend, have cooked your own goose-and your girlfriend's, too."

If the woman standing in back of Grillparzer had been his wife or his kid sister, Drucker wouldn't have looked infallible, and he might have had to start shooting. But the ex-gunner only grimaced. "Christ, what a pack of lies you must have told to get yourself into the SS, you murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I don't know what you're talking about, and you can't prove I do-it's your word against mine," Drucker answered. "I do know, and I have evidence"-he tapped the b.u.t.ton again-"that you've tried to blackmail me. Cough up the cash. You can't use it, anyhow. The banks have the serial numbers of all the notes on their watch list. As soon as you spent one, it'd just be another nail in your coffin."

He sounded convincing as h.e.l.l. He would have believed himself. And Grillparzer believed him-or believed the pistol. Turning his head, he said, "Hand it over, Friedli. The son of a b.i.t.c.h has got us, dammit."

The woman had only to reach onto the cheap pine table behind her to retrieve the envelope. Drucker took it by one corner with his left hand. "Both your fingerprints are on this now, of course," he said cheerfully. The envelope had been opened, but still weighed about what it had when he'd posted it. Grillparzer and-Friedli?-hadn't had the chance to do much plundering. "Remember, if you even think of giving me grief again, you'll be sorrier than you can imagine."

"Christ, why didn't you just tell me over the phone you were a blackshirt along with being a s.p.a.ceman?" Grillparzer asked. By the look in Friedli's eyes, he was going to be sorrier than he could imagine even if Drucker had nothing to do with it.

Cheerful still, Drucker answered, "You'll remember the lesson longer this way. Auf wiedersehen." Auf wiedersehen." And out the door he went. And out the door he went.

5.

Sam Yeager sighed. He'd drafted his son to feed Mickey and Donald breakfast, and Jonathan often gave the Lizard hatchlings supper, too. For their lunch, though, the kid was at school. That meant Sam needed to do the job himself.

Well, he could have given it to Barbara, but his pride prevented that. President Warren had a.s.signed him the job of raising the baby Lizards, so he couldn't very well palm all of it off on his family. Besides, the critters were interesting. "I've been in the Army too long, he said as he stood in the kitchen slicing ham. "Even if it's fun, I don't want to do anything I have to."

"What did you say, honey?" Barbara called from their bedroom, which was at the other end of the house.

"Nothing, really-just grousing," he answered, a little embarra.s.sed that she'd heard him. He looked at how much meat he'd cut. Just after the Lizards hatched, it would have kept them going for a couple of days. Now it was just one meal, or would be after he put a couple of more slices on the plate. Donald and Mickey were almost five months old now, and a lot bigger than when they'd fought their way out of their eggsh.e.l.ls.

He took the plate piled high with ham down the hail to the Lizards' room. They still liked to bolt whenever they got the chance, so he shut the door at the end of the hall before opening theirs. These days, they didn't quite make the mad dash for freedom they had when they were smaller. It seemed more a game of the sort puppies or kittens might play. No matter what it was, though, he didn't feel like running after them, not at his age he didn't.

When he did open the door to their room, he found them rolling on the floor clawing and snapping at each other. They rarely did any damage: again, they could have been a couple of squabbling puppies. From what he'd learned on the Race's computer network, these brawls were normal for hatchlings of their age. He didn't give his leather gauntlets a workout by pulling them apart, the way he had the first few times he'd caught them tangling.

Even though he didn't try to separate them, they sprang apart when he stepped inside. "You know I don't like you doing that, don't you?" he said to them. He talked to them whenever he fed them-whenever he had anything to do with them at all. They didn't pick up language and meaning as readily as human babies did. But he'd already seen they were a lot smarter than dogs or cats. That did make sense. By the time they grew up, they'd be at least as smart as he was, maybe smarter.

For the time being, they were more interested in him as the dinner wagon than in him as a person. Their eye turrets focused on the plate of sliced ham to the exclusion of everything else. They let out little excited hisses and snorts. Maybe it was Sam's imagination, but he thought he caught some humanlike sounds among their noises. Were they trying to imitate him and his family? He supposed he would have to listen to a comparison recording of the noises of Lizard-raised hatchlings to be certain.

"Come and get it, boys," he said, though Mickey and Donald might have been girls for all he knew. He crooked his finger in the come-here gesture people used.

It wasn't a normal Lizard gesture. When they wanted to tell someone to come, they used a twist of the eye turret to get the message across. But Yeager watched Mickey crook one of his skinny, scaly, claw-tipped tiny fingers in just the same way as he hurried forward to get his lunch.

Sam felt like cheering. Instead, he gave Mickey the first piece of ham. That usually went to Donald, who was a little larger and a little quicker. Mickey made the ham disappear in a couple of quick snaps. He c.o.c.ked his head to one side and turned an eye turret up at Yeager, who was feeding Donald his first slice of meat.

What wheels were spinning inside Mickey's head? Sam had wondered that since the day the Lizard hatched. Lizards thought as well as people, but they didn't think like people in a lot of ways. And did hatchlings, could hatchlings, really think at all in the strict sense of the word when they had no words with which to to think? think?

Quite deliberately, Mickey bent his finger into that purely human come-here gesture again. "You little son of a gun!" Yeager exclaimed. "You figured out that that means you get extra, didn't you?" He rewarded the hatchling with another piece of ham.

Donald had one eye turret on Sam, the other on Mickey. He saw the reward his-brother? sister?-had got. When he crooked his finger, he was imitating Mickey, not Yeager.

"No, you fellows aren't dumb at all," Sam said, and gave Donald some meat. From then on, both Lizards kept making come-hither gestures till Yeager ran out of ham. "Sorry, boys, that's all there is," he told them. They didn't understand that, any more than puppies or kittens would have. But their little bellies bulged, so they weren't in imminent danger of starving to death. He looked from one of them to the other. "I don't know. I have the feeling you guys may start talking sooner than you would if you were around a bunch of other Lizards. What have you got to say about that?"

They didn't have anything to say about that. Jonathan wouldn't have had anything to say about it at five months old, either. Physically, the Lizards were a long way ahead of where Jonathan had been at their age-he couldn't even sit up unsupported then, let alone run and jump and fight. Yeager had always thought they were developing more slowly when it came to mental processes.

Now, suddenly, he wasn't so sure. All right: maybe they wouldn't talk as fast as a human baby would. But, plainly, a lot was going on inside their heads. It might not come out in words. One way or another, though, it looked as if it would come out.

"See you later," Sam told them, and waved goodbye. To his disappointment, they didn't try to imitate that. Of course, it didn't have food attached to its meaning. Maybe the big difference between the way they thought and the way people thought was just that they were a lot more practical.

He went back to the kitchen, washed the plate, and set it in the dish drainer. Then he went back to the bedroom. "Those little guys are getting smarter," he told Barbara, and explained what the hatchlings had done.

"That is is interesting," she said. "I think you're right. Something is definitely going on inside their heads-more than I would have expected, since they don't have words with which to form concepts." interesting," she said. "I think you're right. Something is definitely going on inside their heads-more than I would have expected, since they don't have words with which to form concepts."

"I was thinking the same thing," Sam answered: not surprising, considering that they were married and considering that he'd learned from her a lot of what he knew about the way languages worked. Something else was on his mind. "When do you suppose we can start letting them go around the house more?"